Text: Anonymous, “Criticism on Poe's Raven,” Evening Mirror (New York, NY), vol. ??, no. ?, April 19, 1845, pp. ??

[page ??, column ??, continued:]

The following contemplative and droll criticism of this poem that has made a mark, will amuse our friend Poe quite as much as our other readers — perhaps more. It is from a mind capable of a rare and capital vein of periodical literature.

THE RAVEN

MR. EDITOR — In the second number of a late review there is a remarkable poem, or ode, or whatever it may be termed, called the Raven. It is ushered into notice more to point out the literary ingenuity of the author, than to solicit favor for its intrinsic merit, and therefore, it has gone forth with a false estimate of its worth. I read it at first for its curious, alliterative and novel gingle [[jingle]], then I read it again to marvel over the fertility of the author's conception which could clothe such simple facts into such variety of dress and decorations.

Not being satisfied that even my second reading gave me an insight into the true and main object which the author had in view, I scanned each verse separately, not only to discover whether there was a moral, or a deep sentiment lying under this richly embossed framework through which we see such delicate, yet enduring tracery. This close investigation led me to the following queries and conclusions, which I shall endeavor to explain as briefly as possible.

We perceive that the hero of the piece tells his own story, or, rather, tells the story of his feelings and his mental sufferings. He was sitting alone, at midnight, in the bleak month of December, before a good fire, dosing over a book. This book was not one of the current novels of the day, such as keep a man awake with staring eyes and upright hair, but a quaint old volume lone since consigned to oblivion. He naturally concluded that what had procured such a quaint slumber for itself, would shed some of its somniferous qualities upon him. In this expectation he was not disappointed, for in a short time he began to nod, and then to catch at little short naps — a cat sleep, as it is called — which would have ended in the long coveted slumber if he had not been aroused by a tapping at his door.

Now he tells you in the very beginning that his wakefulness and distress of mind arises from the loss of a sainted maiden, “a rare and radiant maiden,” among angels, and that her name is Lenore. He may have other cause of grief, but we shall not inquire into it at present, but confine ourselves strictly to his own narration; to the outpourings of his own feelings, perhaps from this we shall learn the cause of so much unhappiness.

Certain traits of character are gathered from his story. We perceive in the beginning of the poem that he was gentlemanly and courteous, for though oppressed with sorrow for the loss of this rare and radiant maiden, that sleep was a most welcome friend; yet when suddenly roused by the raps at the door, instead of calling out “who is there?” “who dares disturb me at midnight, when my weary spirit and feeble frame require rest? — instead of flying into a towering passion, he starts from his chair, and through this start agitates the purple curtains, causing him such terror as he has never felt before, yet he only repeated to himself that the tapping at the door could only proceed from some visitors. Reassured, he no longer hesitated, but exclaimed aloud, “I implore your forgiveness, friend, whether lady or gentleman, but you tapped so softly, and I was just dosing a little, that I scarcely heard you: — this he said as he threw the door open.

He was therefore gentlemanly and courteous, and had beside no small share of courage — such courage as even the bravest are without at night; for when the tapping commenced again, which was now at the window, instead of being appalled, he conjectured it to be only the wind. Being determined, however, to satisfy himself, he threw open the shutter, and a Raven, stately and grave, who, not staying to make obeisance, or saying with your leave, or by your leave, perched himself upon the top of a pallid bust of Pallas, that was above his chamber door. He enters into a colloquy with this bird — a bird of ill-omen — and finds that he has the strange name of “Nevermore.”

The following questions suffer themselves and there is no peace nor rest for the mind until they are satisfactorily explained: —

1st. Was Lenore his wife, and had he by a series of petty tyrannies driven her to an untimely grave.

2d. Did he win the affections of Lenore, betray here, and then leave her to die, the only privilege that a woman, as Goldsmith says, can claim. Her dying, however, is not to ensure her a pardon, or any happiness in another world, for a suicide can hope for neither. A poor deserted creature whose only fault was in loving too well, is to hide her shame and guilt from every eye, and so utterly debased is she, and so immeasurably, so infinitely more criminal than her betrayer, that her case is not worth a thought. But he — it is for him that Heaven cares. — that is, if he repent. And what is to bring about repentance, but the suicide of the girl he has ruined on earth? and what is this but to ruin her peace here and her soul hereafter? Poor woman! merciless men!

3d. Did he deceive her by a false marriage, and was her death the consequence of her discovering the fraud?

4th. Was he a forger, or murderer, or both and did Lenore die of grief when she discovered his crimes?

5th. Was he a brute like Lovelace, and did Lenore die as Clarissa did?

Now these are questions of deep import, but as they cannot all be pertinent to the inquiry, which one is, of which combination is? Of one fact we are certain, to being with — Lenore has been in that very room, and, as he calls it a chamber, which implies a sleeping apartment, she might have been his wife. — She had likewise sat in the very “violet colored velvet;” easy chair, and these two facts, taken together, give it an air of plausibility.

But on the other hand, no poet, even of the most inveterate and reckless character, using all sort of license, and confounding all sorts of unities, ever reduced a husband into calling his dead wife a maiden. Besides, on second thought, the violet colored velvet chair might have been bought by him when Lenore's furniture was sold at auction after her death, for we are to presume that some of her friends knew that he was the cause of her illness and early death. The first question therefore must be answered in the negative.

The second question, for the want of proof, must likewise be answered in the negative, and we decide on presumptive evidence. No women, even in the eyes of a repentant, scoundrelly lover, could be called a rare and radiant maiden, and fit to be the companion of angels after living in such intimacy with him, as to have inhabited that room and sat in that violet velvet chair that he so minutely describes.

The third question is, did he deceive her by a false marriage? This likewise must be answered in the negative, for the laws have now decided that a marriage is legal if the parties stand up before witnesses, and make the responses that the marriage ceremony requires. Our hero was sufficiently versed in the law for that, so he never would have played so dangerous a game. Poor Lenore, therefore, need not have pined away on that account, for she would have been his lawful wife under any shewing.

Fourthly, was he a forger or murderer, or both. There is not the shadow of a suspicion that this was the case, and there wants but this one fact to convince us of his innocence of those crimes, he stood in no dread of the officers of justice. The tapping at the door and window at midnight, instead of alarming him, produced only a palpitation of the heart, for he evidently stood more in fear of a supernatural retribution, than a natural one. When fully aroused from his half dreaming state, at which time the idea of officers of justice would press upon him with full force, he satisfies himself that the disturbers of his rest were only late visitors, or the wind, and nothing more. Lenore, therefore, did not die of grief because of such crimes.

Lastly, was he a base, treacherous hound, such as Lovelace is described to be; and was it by such infamous arts that he brought Lenore, like Clarissa, to an early grave. This we believe to be the true reason, the true cause of the loss of that rare and radiant maiden. — Le us give our proof. No man, be he ever so deeply laden with sin, even to the crime of murder, believes himself cut off forever from all hopes of mercy. He knows that there is a power to save if repentance is sincere, and that there are strong mitigating circumstances in his favor. His soul often whispers this hope to him — he does not wholly despair.

But our hero has no such hope; he knows that there are no mitigating circumstances to soften his guilt. He was a villain of so clear, so deep a dye, so utterly devoid of all human sympathies, so sensual, so reckless and so determined, that he felt assured his life must have been blotted out of the book of life forever. Was he so shallow an actor as to use narcotics — no, for the taste is now so improved that it would have been detected both by the sense of smell and taste. Besides, in this age of improvements, ladies do not drink wine or cordials while on a journey, or when making a little excursion in a sleigh, as in times of old, when mulled wine was always in readiness.

Are there not men who go about to lecture on mesmerism, has it not been satisfactorily proved that a species of catalepsy can be produced, by depriving the system of nervous stimulus. Has it not been tested that teeth can be extracted, and large tumors removed, without the patient;s being conscious of it. — are we not taught how to put a person in this cataleptic state — cannot every one learn this out!

There was no hope for this fell villain — he tells us so. For one moment, while his thoughts were drawn from the reproaches of his own heart, to the strange pertinacity of that ghastly, grim and ancient Raven, he forgot his miseries. He was thinking of Lenore as being in heaven, and the delicate perfume of the censer, as the angle swayed it to and fro, seemed to fill his room. Nay, he even fancied that he heard the faint foot-falls of these angles on the turkey carpet. But this soon passed away, and he was left in greater gloom than before.

In a fit of desperation, he suddenly wheels round the chair lined with violet-colored velvet, and brings it in front of the door, on the top of which stood the pallid bust of Pallas, with the Raven perched on its head. Thus confronting the bird, he implores him to say whether, for that soul of his so haunted by crime and horror, there was any hope of pardon — was there any balm in Gilead. The Raven answers in the negative. This renders the sinner desperate; he adjures the Raven in the strangest terms — by everything he holds sacred, by the Heaven above them — to tell the soul so overwhelmed with misery and crime, whether he shall ever again see that rare and radiant maiden, that the angels call Lenore.

The Raven gave him no hope, and he now sinks down in utter despair; he resigns himself to complete, dire misery; but he cannot avoid giving the bird a taste of his passionate temper, and no wonder, considering the dogged obstinacy of this saintly-looking, shorn and shaven creature, who sits looking at him in that cool, quite, diabolical manner, giving utterance only to that one word — nevermore.

Bird or fiend, shrieked he, as he started up from the chair lined with violet colored velvet, get thee back with the tempest to the Plutonian shore of night. Do not leave a black feather behind thee to remind me of the lies thou hast uttered. Take thy beak from out my heart — leave me alone — take they body off of my pallid bust of Pallas.

But the Raven was not going to do any such thing; he meant to sit there, staring at him as long as he chose. It was but fair that he who had made the title of that rare and radiant maiden so miserable on earth, should have another demon to torment him.

Was there even a story that so fully exposed the cruelty and basement of a profligate heart. He endeavors at first to excite our sympathies by pretending that what he felt was sorrow and grief for the lost Lenore, but he could not keep it up; the foul fiend that tormented him — his evil conscience — would not let him impose upon the world: His home was horror-haunted, and he was obliged to confess it —